


a wild wait to wait

by sundermount



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dimilix Week (Fire Emblem), M/M, Roleswap AU, premarital hand kinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundermount/pseuds/sundermount
Summary: “I apologise for my disobedience,” Dimitri murmured, hand curving over Felix’s wrist.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79
Collections: 2021 Dimilix Week





	a wild wait to wait

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dimilix Week 2021, for the day 2 prompt "Roleswap AU".
> 
> Lightly edited, unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

They’d dangled his father’s lance over his head, in a bid to get him to remain; blackmail, so he would serve the country of his birth. Dimitri's face contorted with anger as he readied a growl. It rumbled, deep, then—

“Return it to him,” Felix ordered.

His face was turned away from Dimitri, like Dimitri was unworthy of even a sliver of his attention. He’d not looked at Dimitri once, which Dimitri knew to be true—his own gaze had been fixed on Felix as long as Felix’s was not on him.

“Your Highness—”

“Have I not made myself clear?” Felix’s voice was ice-cold, and Dimitri felt the beginning of a shiver take, snaking its way up his back. He shook it off, and stood firm. “If he joins us, it will be of his own volition. If he does not, Areadbhar is still not ours to keep.”

He stalked over to where they’d gathered, and took it in hand; and Dimitri, impossibly, felt the touch. Ancient magics or his own hallucinated fantasy, he did not know. He tracked Felix's steps as he made his way to him, as he extended it in Dimitri’s direction, his gaze still trained away.

Dimitri took it. Areadbhar was so warm in his hands; it practically _sang_ , as if it knew him to be a Blaiddyd; wept for how weapon and wielder were reunited at long last. He clutched it in both hands, and savoured the moment. It felt right, fit to his hand perfectly the way no other lance had ever come close to.

Felix was still not looking at him. Dimitri would do what he must. He shifted Areadbhar to a hand, and took a knee.

His immediate inhale was audible. Dimitri looked up. Felix's eyes bore into his, then flit about his person: they lingered on his face, first. Then what had been Dimitri’s right eye for a beat too long, before darting away.

Felix swallowed, and Dimitri watched the line of his neck as his throat bobbed.

“You are more than intimately familiar with my distaste for owing people,” Dimitri said.

Felix did not reply, crossing his arms. They continued to stare at each other. Dimitri knew that Felix would not look away first; being the first to give in would mean losing, to him, and he was always combative in the worst of ways.

Dimitri took the opportunity to look his fill. The harsh angles of Felix’s jaw and cheekbone had been carved sharper since Dimitri last saw him, and the desire that’d first growled its presence all those years ago reared its head again; it pooled in his groin, made him stir as he fought to keep still.

His fist curled tighter around Areadbhar. The staff had been doubly reinforced to withstand Blaiddyd strength, and it showed. Any other weapon would have already been snapped in half.

“I will wield this lance in your service, and my body and skill is yours to command to take back Fhirdiad.” He did nothing to disguise his lust; let it bleed through to cloud his gaze as his breaths grew heavier. He saw the moment Felix registered it; the intent that laid behind his eyes that curled in hiding like a snake, poised and ready to attack.

Felix’s gaze took on an edge, one Dimitri knew to mean he was accepting the challenge presented.

He pulled his glove off.

Dimitri had noticed the movement, anticipated the action that would follow. Yet, he was still shaken; flayed by the sight of Felix's hand before him, bare and fine-boned and winter-paled. And he knew it more intimately than most, that feeling of whip splitting flesh open.

“Prove yourself,” Felix demanded, extending his hand; imperious. His amber eyes held fire that promised to burn Dimitri if he stepped any closer.

His outstretched hand beckoned.

Dimitri stood, and walked towards him. He stopped in front of Felix, a step too close to be polite, and took a knee again; then carefully, Felix’s hand in his own. It was deceptively delicate in how it looked for the amount of hurt it was capable of inflicting on Dimitri, like everything else about Felix. Dimitri held it so carefully.

The sight of uncovered flesh on black steel made for a stark contrast. It felt like a lifeline, another homecoming, as Dimitri lowered his head; pressed lips to the rough back of a palm.

He breathed in, and smelled steel. A deeper breath, and he’d found what he’d been searching for—the scent of lilies, faint but present, buried under the glorified stink of death.

Dimitri was still knelt before Felix. His forehead pressed to his outstretched hand, in supplication.

“Rise,” Felix commanded, and Dimitri did as he bade. He took a step back, and Dimitri had enough control and sense left to not immediately fill the space he’d left, chasing his warmth.

“I accept you into my service, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” he said.

Dimitri bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said.

Felix turned on his heel, addressing the others in the room. “Dimitri and I will be taking our leave now,” he said. His impatience was writ clear, and his tone promised a lashing for anyone who would attempt to stop their departure.

No one dared to call after them when they left.

  


* * *

  


“Damned Gilbert,” Felix swore, pushing his hair back from his face. He kept a fast pace, and Dimitri had to lengthen his own stride to keep up. “I did not ask them to do that,” he said, much quieter. “They made no mention of planning such a thing with your father’s lance. I had not known that they’d even retrieved it.”

“I did,” Dimitri said, and Felix stopped short.

Dimitri halted as well, one foot half-raised off the ground.

“Explain yourself,” Felix said. He resumed his pace, walking even faster; the clip of his boots was thunderous, evidence of his anger. Felix always loathed being kept in the dark.

“I thought it would further sell the untruth of my unwilling service.” Felix twitched, and Dimitri could see a vein in his temple throb.

“I suppose revenge against Cornelia for her role in the Tragedy of Duscur and your father’s death was not a convincing enough argument.”

“It was not my intention to keep it from you.” Dimitri walked even faster so he could overtake Felix, and turned when he did; Felix stopped, and the sound of their steps that was the only source of noise this late at night ceased with them.

“You never _intend_ to do anything,” Felix said, accusatory, but his tone held less bite than Dimitri remembered. He was not as disagreeable as well; if Dimitri was a more hopeful man, he would’ve attributed it to their reunion. “You just do it.”

Dimitri raised a hand and—as if approaching a stray animal—stroked a clawed finger over Felix’s cheek, careful. “I’m sorry,” he said. _Beloved_. He hoped the unspoken endearment would be implicit in his touch.

Felix’s eyes closed as he gave himself over to the feeling of it; leaned into the caress as it ghosted over his jaw, and kissed down the length of his neck. “How long will you remain for this time?” he asked.

“Indefinitely,” Dimitri murmured.

Felix shuddered against his hand, eyes fluttering open for a brief moment before they closed again. “Not even—?”

“Not unless there is information at stake that only my Imperial contacts will grant to me, no. I will not be leaving your side again.”

Felix sighed, a relieved huff of breath. “I see. Was that the point of that entire charade?” Then his eyes flew open, revealing his sharpened gaze. “What else has transpired since we last met that you’ve not already written me about? Any more deliberate obfuscation of plans concerning yourself?”

Dimitri slowly crowded him against a wall; braced a forearm against it as he looked down at Felix, who was stilled against the tips of his gauntlet. His arm would’ve already been severed if his touch was not welcome, a fact they both knew.

He leaned down and spoke through a thick, swollen throat, surprised that he was still capable of speech. “Your father is still being held hostage. It seems like Cornelia has other plans for him. She—”

“She’ll use him as a pawn when we get too close to retaking Fhirdiad,” Felix finished for him. Dimitri nodded. His finger passed over Felix’s cheek again, then curled around the back of his neck. Felix placed a hand on his armour, over where his heart beat; a signal to halt. “Continue,” he said.

Dimitri breathed through the ache in his teeth. “We’ve liberated the last of Cornelia’s prisoners. They’re currently recovering at our outposts in Blaiddyd and Galatea. Edelgard’s forces are planning to take the Great Bridge of Myrddin next, and my sources are certain that their plans will be moved up once news of the professor’s return reaches them.”

Felix’s other hand crept up Dimitri’s neck to his cheek; it rested over the cloth of his eye covering, an unspoken question.

“A necessary sacrifice,” Dimitri whispered.

“Did I not order you to return to me as you were?” Felix’s voice almost trembled.

“I apologise for my disobedience,” Dimitri murmured, hand curving over Felix’s wrist. He eased a sleeve down, and his thumb pressed at the soft inner skin where Felix’s pulse beat. Dimitri lowered his mouth, and brushed his lips against it. Then his teeth, fine points scraping along flesh.

A hand curled in his hair, guiding his mouth away; then up, to Felix’s.

“Not now,” Felix said, breathing it hotly into the half-inch of space that separated their mouths.

“I have hungered for you for almost a year,” Dimitri rasped. He was still holding himself apart from Felix; it felt like an entire continent’s worth of distance between them even as their feet occupied the same square tile, and he was so taut he shook. “With nothing but your written word and secondhand messages to keep me company.”

“You sound like a fool,” Felix said, reprimanding. “The hunger has made you mad.”

A gloved finger pressed at his lower lip, and Dimitri bit at it; the close of his teeth around it was slow, to give Felix the chance to draw it back, but he did not. It now lay between the gentle press of his maw as he slowly bit down, increasing pressure.

Dimitri bit down harder, and Felix drew his finger back in increments. What lay between his teeth now was more glove than gloved finger; he held it firm, teeth leaving imprints in leather as Felix pulled his hand free of it. Then, finally, the glove was off all the way; Dimitri knew it from the way it fell, as the leather brushed his chin.

His gaze bore into Felix’s. The glove was eased from his mouth, and the backs of Felix’s bare fingers skimmed over his brow; then down his nose, and over a cheekbone.

Felix ducked under his arm, slipping from his grasp. The corridor was once again filled with the sound of his steps, and he turned to look at Dimitri briefly as he pulled his glove back on, then went around a corner and melted into the darkness.

Dimitri drew a breath, ignoring the ache in his groin and every predatory instinct that had been roused and called to action. He counted to ten, then followed in Felix's wake, keeping as sedate a pace as he could.

  


* * *

  


The murmurs that followed Dimitri after battle were the same as always. _Animalistic_. _Terrifying_. _A beast_. A relentless buzzing he’d long grown numb to, so he ignored it, and kept to himself as he wiped his bloodstained lance on the grass. It would have to do until they returned to camp and he could procure a rag for himself.

The plates of his armour shifted, gleaming black and cruel in the mid-morning sun. The light did nothing to mask the grotesque form of it.

The spots of blood on his face felt tacky, irritatingly so. His hair hung limp, wet with more than just sweat; cleaning himself would also have to wait. He could wipe his face on the ground—but that would make him no more than an animal, and he had a reputation to maintain.

Felix was alone as he took in the battlefield. Then, as if feeling his eye on him, Felix turned. His gaze burned, and Dimitri stood where he was and endured it.

Felix started walking towards him. The murmurs quietened as the soldiers noted their prince’s approach.

He stopped in front of Dimitri and looked up at him. Dimitri noted the movement of his arm as he reached for something. His gaze held Felix’s steady one.

“You’re filthy,” Felix said, then reached up with a rag-covered finger to swipe at Dimitri’s cheek. He would not have jerked back from Felix’s touch, but Felix’s hand on the back of his neck ensured he would not all the same. Dimitri held still, taking shallow breaths as he stared at the furrow of Felix’s brow and the displeased, downward curl of his mouth. The smell of lilies was stronger today, but still faint under the sharp tang of iron and sweat.

A voice spoke out, hesitant: “Your Highness, you shouldn’t have to—“

“Shut up,” Felix snapped, not pausing in his ministrations, and Dimitri continued to bask in his touch.

He moved on to Dimitri’s brow after giving up on his cheek, the harsh motions of his hands gentling as they dabbed around his eye covering. Two more quick swipes along Dimitri’s jaw, then he was done, and stepping out of Dimitri’s space.

Dimitr’s chest tightened, even as he felt he could breathe again.

Dimitri knew. He _knew_ they had both agreed to not give in to it—whatever _it_ was—until after Fhirdiad had been secured, but three years had become four, then five; then it became them stealing whatever moments they could in brief touches of hands that did not linger, the brush of shoulders couched in hostility for the benefit of witnesses.

So it was that Dimitri knew the taste of Felix’s fingers and his neck, and the curve of his waist under his palms. The swell of a cock against his thigh, once, before they had come to their senses and forcibly ripped themselves away from each other. But he had never learned the feeling of chapped lips against his, or tasted the tongue that would lash a hundred misbehaving troops more efficiently than a whip ever could.

It was impossibly unbearable with Felix just in reach of him—so close, yet as far as when Dimitri had been taken prisoner in Cornelia’s Fhirdiad, and Felix was coordinating the Kingdom’s resistance efforts from where he would be safest in the thick of Blaiddyd territory.

Felix pressed the rag to Dimitri’s chestplate and said, “Use this.”

“Everyone else in your company thinks civility is wasted on an animal such as myself,” Dimitri replied.

Felix glared at a spot over his shoulder, pressing the rag harder at him. “This is not a debate about your right to civility, but your capacity for it. You managed well enough when we were at the monastery, did you not?”

“I suppose I do not have a choice in the matter, despite your subjects’ opinions.” Dimitri’s hand curled over Felix’s own gloved one. It dwarfed his. Felix felt impossibly fragile under his gauntlets as he eased the rag from his grasp with a thumb and forefinger.

Felix spoke again, voice lowered. “It does not matter what they think.” He clenched his jaw, and Dimitri watched as the muscle in it worked. “You serve me, not them.”

Dimitri wiped the tips of his hair. Red further stained blond, but at least it did not continue to drip. He held Felix’s unblinking gaze.

“As Your Highness commands,” he said. He spat Felix’s title out with as much contempt as he could muster; the glint in Felix’s eye held some amount of approval.

The chatter did not renew itself after Felix left him. Dimitri was thankful for it.

Dimitri rode to the freezing lake an hour away from camp in the evening, the one that even soldiers desiring privacy found too far. He slid in, clenching his teeth, and braced himself against the freezing cold.

He soaped himself down as his teeth chattered, worked the bar over his scarred body and paid careful attention to the long cut over his chest—same with the area around his eye, although his own hand was not as gentle as Felix’s had been.

If the water had not been so cold, the memory of it would have stirred his cock. If the light was not already waning, he would have palmed himself to that very same memory.

Dimitri dried himself and donned his armour again, save for his gauntlets. He sat by the lake and rinsed the rag Felix had used on him. It looked utterly ruined by blood and viscera, but effort—with the aid of cold water and soap—went a long way.

He wrung it out, and felt something against his hand; collected threads, an embroidered edge. Dimitri straightened it out, and sighed.

His ride back to camp was swift.

As Felix’s retainer in name, Dimitri shared his tent. There was also the matter of their quartermaster deeming him unworthy of extra resources, hemming and hawing until Felix had proclaimed that there was no need, that he and Dimitri would share. Dimitri having his own cot was, he suspected, them not wanting him sullying their prince’s.

Felix had not yet returned. He took a seat at the small table, lit the candle and raised what he thought had been a rag to the light. His initials were embroidered on it, deep blue stark against white cotton. Dimitri recognised it: a gift from his stepmother, used to wipe Felix’s tears more than once in childhood, claimed by Felix as a favour for himself the third time Dimitri had left his side to aid resistance efforts.

Dimitri folded it into neat halves and placed it in the middle of Felix’s cot, initials facing up. He did not bother unbuckling his armour from himself as he sat against the cot and dozed, resting his body instead of falling into a true sleep.

It was a while before he heard the cadence of a familiar footfall, then the cloth of a tent flap parting. A tired sigh heralded the release of Felix’s stiff-backed posture, as he shook off proper royal conduct to relax into the straight-backed one that came of strict training and discipline. Dimitri did not need to see to know.

Footsteps neared where he sat, accompanied by a faint sigh. A hand curved around his cheek, brushed the hair that had fallen into his eyes behind an ear. Dimitri turned his face into the touch, and pressed a kiss to the middle of a palm.

He cracked open his good eye. Felix’s hair was damp, and his cloak improperly fastened. “You should be careful about your effects,” Dimitri murmured. Felix lifted him by his underarms, then worked on the buckles and ties of his armour.

Felix looked over to his cot, then snorted. “I carry it around with me. Where else would be safer than on my person?”

Dimitri followed the movement of his hands, allowed himself to be guided and manhandled as vambraces and breastplate were lifted off him. He hummed. “You brandished it in the company of others, to clean its owner whom you purport not to stand. That seems counterproductive.”

“Cease your ridiculousness.” His cuisse and greaves were next to go. “You should be ashamed, forcing your prince to attend to you.” A night shirt was thrust at him as Felix retrieved Dimitri’s—his—handkerchief, and moved to unfasten his own cloak. Dimitri rid himself of his foundation garments and dressed, then laid down.

Felix’s cot was no different from his own. Even if it was, he would not be taking his rest in it for the quality of bedding.

The cot dipped. A hand rested on his chest. Dimitri turned over, gathered Felix in his arms, and pressed his face into the crown of his head. The smell of Felix filled his nose, steel as present as ever, sweat and musk faded in favour of lilies once again.

It was always at times like these when sleep warred with desire that the touches between them felt easier and less weighted. Like at the very beginning, when whatever between them was just a bud not yet bloomed; when they’d thought waiting would not be as difficult as it was, as they put their plan to retake Fhirdiad into motion.

It could be devotion, or a childhood habit. But Dimitri always slept easier with Felix.

  


* * *

  


Dimitri woke with his cock pressed against the curve of Felix’s behind; he muffled a groan in the bare flesh of Felix’s shoulder and tightened his arms around him as he bit down and fought the urge to rut. The space between his thighs was damp with sweat and the evidence of his own desire; he groaned again, bit down harder, and loosened his arms. He need to leave at once.

Except Felix was awake, and faster than he had any right to be. A hand clamped tight over Dimitri's arms, and a leg hooked itself behind Dimitri’s calf. His breaths were heavy, and Dimitri let out an undignified noise when he realised that Felix’s other hand had been palming at his own hardness. Dimitri ached to push himself harder into Felix as well, relieve the painful ache that throbbed, insistent, between his own legs—but if he did, there would be no stopping until he was fully sated, and not even the Goddess knew how long that would take. Half a decade's worth of longing was not so easily consummated in a morning, or even a full night.

He ripped himself away, albeit with some difficulty. People tended to forget, with how lithe Felix was, but his strength was second only to Dimitri’s.

Felix turned around and glared. The sight of him, pink and sweating, hair tousled and spellbindingly tempting in his frustration and anger and arousal, made Dimitri want to claw at his own throat. Dimitri averted his gaze. Their chests heaved, as they struggled to calm themselves.

It was Felix who spoke first. “Spar?”

His voice was still sleep-rough; it made Dimitri think too hard about the other ways it could’ve ended up like so.

Dimitri nodded his assent.

They made a habit of sparring in the early mornings or late evenings, a habit carried over from their school days. Those times were when the training grounds were not filled to capacity, when students were in their beds or at dinner. It freed them from overly curious eyes neither had patience nor care for.

On the road, they’d tended to seek out difficult spots that afforded them an added challenge—terrain was even here, but it had densely-packed trees and low branches that were difficult to navigate around.

Felix did not speak, and neither did he. The clash of lance against sword did enough for them, joined in the air by their open-mouthed pants.

They had an edge in speed and strength respectively, but Felix had the advantage of a tighter grip on his own desires, and Dimitri’s unslaked lust for him. When Felix stepped into his space and twisted, he’d shocked Dimitri with a breathful of his smell. It made him falter, and Felix, sharp-eyed and keen, rightfully took advantage of it.

Dimitri once harboured a fantasy of being Felix’s protector that was dashed as quickly as it'd formed. Even an unskilled civilian could tell from the way Felix fought that he was more than capable of looking after himself.

He’d found respect in his men with his diligence in training; built a name for himself on the straightforward artlessness of his being. Felix would grant you the dignity of looking you in the eye as he drove his sword into your chest. He had no mind for subterfuge, and employed no duplicitous tactics; if Felix got to you, you would know it was because he’d won the right to, because you were to blame—because you were weaker than him.

Their spar ended with the tip of a sword against Dimitri’s throat.

Dimitri’s eyes fixed on the harsh rise and fall of Felix's chest beneath his thin shirt. He would be able to rend it so easily; as sure of the fact as he was that whatever implement he'd use to split cloth would also look beautiful against Felix's skin.

His breathing mirrored Felix’s. He let his lance fall, and Felix did the same with his sword.

“You’re distracted today,” Felix said.

“Can you blame me?” Dimitri replied. Felix stretched, and tilted his head to the side. It exposed a pale neck that shone with sweat. Dimitri’s teeth ached to sink themselves into skin again. He looked away, and busied himself with wiping his lance clean.

He could hear Felix as he walked over; the scrape of his sword as he dragged it on the ground. He had the skill to move silently—noise was for Dimitri's benefit, to signal to him where he was.

Dimitri felt Felix stop right behind him; he felt like a cornered animal. He turned, slowly. A shuffle of feet on the ground, a hard edge to his gaze that Felix met with an equally sharp one.

“Have you not already tempted me enough this morning?” Dimitri murmured.

Felix stepped further into Dimitri’s space. He pressed a hand to Dimitri’s sternum, and Dimitri let himself be guided by it, until his back was flush against a tree trunk.

“You play dangerous games, Felix Fraldarius,” Dimitri said quietly, after glancing around to ensure there was nobody in the vicinity. There was no bite to his words.

“Such insolence," Felix murmured, playful. There was a lazy, predatory look in his eyes as he fit a leg between Dimitri's. "You say that like I am ever in danger of losing.” He tipped Dimitri’s chin up with a finger, pressed the pad of a thumb to the seam of his mouth; Dimitri looked at him from under his lashes, and allowed the maw of him to fall open. He did not dare breathe. Every part of his being was called to attention even as it fought at being handled in such a manner and relished in Felix being the one who did so.

Dimitri’s mouth fell open further. Felix’s thumb now half lay in his mouth. If Dimitri did not swallow, the saliva that’d built up would wet the leather of Felix’s glove. He hissed, sucked in a breath through his mouth, and held Felix’s gaze as he pressed a hand over his crotch to ease the throbbing ache that pulsed, insistent.

Felix’s thumb moved over a sharp canine, pressing down. Dimitri’s mind spun, anticipation and excitement building in him, making his heart pound and his cock throb more hotly.

He withdrew his thumb. Dimitri closed his mouth and swallowed.

Felix turned on his heel and walked the path back to camp, leaving Dimitri drenched in his lust; it wanted to howl its presence, warred with his adoration.

He did not immediately move to follow. He lingered, until his heart slowed and he was calmed, and took his fill of the scent Felix left in his wake. It was so at odds with the him of now—or oddly fitting, depending on who you asked. Adrestians regarded the lily as the flower of death, after all.

He strode forward, and tried his best to catch up to Felix.

  


* * *

  


A vigil was held every anniversary of the Duscur tragedy, and this year was no different.

Dimitri did not participate. He kept to the edge of the crowd, looking over the soldiers that had gathered in a loose circle around Felix.

“I remember my brother as a skilled warrior with a foul temper,” Felix began. The men that surrounded him tittered; the ones who were old enough to remember laughed. Dimitri’s mouth twisted into a faint smile. Felix had fretted about what to say, kept them up with revision upon revision of the speech he’d planned in the week leading up to this.

Dimitri did not need to be here. He slipped away as quietly as he could, making his way to his and Felix’s tent.

His presence had been questioned at the vigils he’d attended in the years after the tragedy, and he’d almost been banned from a few until Rodrigue had put a foot down and insisted that he had as much right to mourn as everybody else, if not more. He was a child, and bore no fault. Nobody had anticipated that a routine diplomatic excursion would’ve gone as wrong as it did; leaving the crown prince dead, as many of the Prince's Guard as there were bodies to bury, and the prince's protector deceased—a man that had been accused of colluding with the enemy, a man Dimitri could no longer call father. 

Dimitri had almost followed his parents to Duscur, and Felix had been ecstatic about being allowed to accompany Glenn. They were both told it was a blessing in disguise that they took ill when they did.

Despite official investigations into the matter and King Rodrigue vouching for his deceased friend’s loyalty and innocence, the same investigations that’d cleared Lambert Blaiddyd’s name had failed to produce any solid information about who was behind the attack. Citizens hungry for an answer and desperate for someone to blame were half-convinced of a conspiracy, and his father's name had become dirt in their mouths. 

There was as much reverence for him left as there were survivors, and as much resentment for Dimitri as there were bodies, multiplied hundredfold.

And then there was Felix, whose adoration for him shone so brightly it cast even more of a light on Dimitri, when all he wanted was to keep to the shadows.

“They do not resent you,” Felix said later. “They fear you.” His cloak was draped loosely around him, an ineffectual barrier against the cold. Dimitri tugged at the area around his neck, and Felix scowled. He nodded, in the most disagreeable way one could nod, and clasped it.

It reminded Dimitri of Felix as a child, fighting his nurses and Glenn as they’d bundled him up as much as they could before allowing him out of the castle.

“You are not afraid of me,” Dimitri said simply. A statement of fact.

“I have never been afraid of you,” Felix replied. “My fear has always been _for_ you.” Then, as if he’d said something regretful, he moved into action; angrily bustling around their tent, dragging another stool over to where Dimitri sat, scraping it loudly against the ground as he stomped as much as he could stomp. He shoved coal into the brazier as noisily as possible, and made frustrated noises when lumps would fall to the ground. Gloves were slapped on the table, followed by the deafening _clink_ of glass bottles as he rummaged through a wooden chest before pulling one out, triumphant.

Felix lifted a hand to Dimitri’s face, and tilted his chin up with the tips of his fingers.

Practice made perfect; the more Felix touched him, the more opportunities he had to learn to savour it, bear it until Felix took it back again. But every casual touch also made Dimitri burn impossibly hotter than their stolen ones did, innocent as they were: a perfunctory cleaning of his face, a grip to the wrist. A hand on his shoulder that became fingers that brushed along his throat, lingering.

Felix dropped his hand. Dimitri almost followed it. He restrained himself in time.

“Even when you were confronted with the worst parts of me?” Dimitri asked, instead.

“Yes,” Felix said. He placed the glass vial of tincture on the table beside them, so he could run his fingers through Dimitri’s hair. Dimitri fought a full-bodied shudder, but shivered once, lightly. 

“You do not scare me, because I know everything about you. Especially your weaknesses.” Dimitri saw Felix reach for the tie of his eye covering, felt the give as it came loose. Felix set it aside, then gripped Dimitri’s chin and examined his eye.

“You?” Dimitri questioned.

Felix tapped at his forehead with a firm finger; his annoyance clear, even as his face turned pink.

“Quiet.” He pressed gentle fingers to the jagged scar that ran down the closed lid, then withdrew his touch. Dimitri heard the uncorking of a bottle, and fingers were on his eye again, gentle as they dabbed thick, scented grease on his scar.

“How did your speech go, _Shield of Faerghus_?” His tongue wrapped around the title in fond caress. Felix wiped his fingers with Dimitri’s handkerchief, the same one he’d mistaken for a rag, and _tsk_ ’ed in annoyance.

“It went over well enough.” A tentative hand placed itself over Dimitri’s, clasped in his lap. “It’s strange without my father by my side, but they liked the parts about Glenn that you suggested.”

Dimitri looked down at their hands, and toyed with Felix’s fingers. "They loved him," he said.

"I know," Felix said. "I did, too."

"As did I," Dimitri said.

They paused for a moment, before Felix spoke again. “Does it feel strange, that this all seems to be ending soon?”

He considered the question. “Have we not been planning for this since your father confided in us about what truly happened at Duscur?” Dimitri asked. He linked their fingers and brought their joined hands to his mouth. Felix did not protest his kiss, but a flush crept up his neck.

Dimitri still hungered for him. But the flame did not burn as intensely tonight, and it was easy enough to breathe through his longing, the arousal that simmered whenever he was in close proximity to Felix.

“Yet it remains so, to have everything you’ve waited for and wanted so close at hand.” Felix’s eyes were slits, and his gaze heated. Dimitri understood his meaning; his desire flared bright in answer, and his hand tightened.

“I agree,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

“I will cut a path for you, as I have promised.” Felix insinuated himself further into Dimitri’s space, lowering himself into Dimitri’s lap like it was the throne he would one day sit upon. He reached up to cradle Dimitri’s face in the cup of a hand. “You will take Cornelia's head. Do what you have been born to do, and remove the last thing standing between saving my father and reclaiming our kingdom.”

Dimitri shuddered a breath, and turned his face into Felix’s hand. His voice was still hoarse, though now muffled into his palm. “Take care of yourself when I am not there to protect you.”

Felix scoffed, and tapped his cheek once. Then he caressed it, fingers dancing lightly, skating over the curve of bone. “Do you think me incapable of caring for myself?”

 _All that stands between you and death is light armour and thin skin_ , Dimitri wanted to say. He shook his head instead, and was rewarded with the weight of Felix’s gaze, proud and satisfied.

“Be safe as well. You know my loathing for needless self-sacrifice.” A hand curled around Dimitri’s neck, calloused thumb applying gentle pressure over the bump of his throat. “You’ve already defied my order once. Return to me with more than a scratch again, and you will feel my wrath.”

Dimitri recalled the months he’d spent in Cornelia’s dungeons. He’d held on to his memories of Felix with a vicious possessiveness, his only tether to sanity as he waited for the signal to act and was made to endure everything that came with playing prisoner in the meantime. “I clawed my way out of her hell to return to your side, because I knew that it would not hold a candle to your fury if you'd come to learn of my passing.”

Felix kissed as if it hurt himself to do it, to give in to Dimitri. Like he was impaling himself on his own sword again and again, each punched-out, stuttered sound carrying the pain that’d come of Dimitri biting at his lips and his neck; clutching hard at every inch of skin that was afforded to him.

Dimitri held Felix so tightly to his person he was sure bruises would form. But until Felix said otherwise, he would take what had finally been offered; and until Felix stopped, Dimitri would kiss him and give him everything he could.

“You have suffered unjustly, my boar,” he murmured, after. Dimitri’s lips still felt raw. Their breaths seemed deafening in the quiet of their tent. “Circumstance has kept you away from me, but know that you are mine.” He said it so softly, like he could not bear for Dimitri to hear him speak of his affection.

Dimitri tipped his head to Felix’s. He would not love him as secretly as Felix’s station bade he do; it was a cruel twist of fate, then, that he would be made to suffer his longing, shut away for all but one to see.

Felix would one day sit atop the throne they’d fought so hard to secure. And Dimitri would finally be beside him, Blaiddyd once again in their rightful place, basking in the bright light of their Fraldarius.

“I am yours,” Dimitri said. 

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you spend 3 weeks coming up with an entire pepe silvia conspiracy wall of how centuries of Fraldarius rule would have affected Faerghus and other times "what if... dimitri kiss felix hand" that was written on the literal day of posting is what’s completed in time.


End file.
